Close Contact
by katierosefun
Summary: The Doctor is sick...and Clara is the one taking care of him. [Sick!fic. Light Whouffaldi fluff, though it can be read as strong friendship.]


**I just really, really, really wanted to write a sick!ficlet with sick!Twelve. Especially after watching Saturday's ****_Kill the Moon..._****actually, I think I might just end up writing another sick!Twelve fic set shortly after that episode, because we ****_all _****need it. (Doesn't matter if you're a Whouffaldi shipper or a platonic lover - we are ****_all _****in pain after watching Clara cry and the Doctor just ****_standing there with his hearts broken. _****Remember when ****_Time Heist _****was the happiest episode for the Whouffaldi shippers? And ****_Robot of Sherwood _****made us all laugh? Yeah...I remember those days, too...mainly because my heart wasn't ****_broken all the way back then!) _**

**Anyways. I'm calm. No, I'm not. Enjoy! **

* * *

"Right. Right, right, right, we're _not _traveling today," were Clara Oswald's words once hearing the Doctor's long, painful coughing fit. She drummed her fingers against the console (lightly, of course – she didn't want the TARDIS to get angry at her,) and looked over at the Doctor, who looked absolutely miserable. (He looked a mix between a sullen owl and a discomforted child, which, under different circumstances, Clara would have laughed about.) His hair was in an untidy mess (much to Clara's amusement,) and his eyes were tired and bloodshot. His entire face was much paler than Clara would have liked, except for perhaps the pink flush in his cheeks.

In other words, the Doctor was sick. Actually, truly, properly _sick_, and the idiot was still blundering about how he wanted to show Clara the Great Pyramids of Egypt II. And to be quite honest, while Clara wouldn't mind another adventure, the Doctor's health was a bit more important to her, even if he didn't know it just yet.

"Don't be ridiculous. You've never wanted to miss a trip before," the Doctor was now saying hoarsely, leaning against the railing of the upper level of the TARDIS. Clara rolled her eyes and walking over to the Doctor, replied, "This is just _one time_. It won't kill me."

"Thought you liked schedules," the Doctor only muttered in response, rubbing his eyes. A humorous smile took over Clara's lips and she placed her hands on his shoulders. He stiffened for a full second, staring down at Clara with a curious look. The brunette slowly turned the Doctor around and started to push him across the room. "Get some rest _now_," she said lightly. "Or at least do something that doesn't involve worsening your condition."

"I'm in perfect health, Clara –" The Doctor started to argue, only to be cut off by another coughing attack. Clara cringed and gripped the Doctor's arm as he took the time to lean against the railing. She rubbed his back in large, soothing circles before asking quietly, "You were saying?"

The Doctor righted himself and turned to look at Clara. "Don't play that with me, Clara," he said crossly, though the shakiness in his voice told Clara enough. She nudged him into the corridor, murmuring, "You have a…bedroom around here, I'm assuming."

"'Course I do," the Doctor replied. "Don't have much use for it, but –"

"But today's the exception," Clara finished patiently. With that, she started to walk down the corridor, her hand still latched around the Doctor's arm. It took a few minutes of protesting and grumbling and complaining, though in the end, the Doctor finally admitted defeat. Once he was in his bedroom (something that Clara hadn't really seen before), he slouched down on his bed and murmured, "I suppose sleep won't hurt."

Clara bit her smile back and started to play with the blankets. "Come on," she said lightly. She pointed a finger underneath the covers and the Doctor obediently kicked off his shoes. He rolled underneath the blankets and groaned, burying his head in his pillow. "This is the oddest thing that's ever happened to me," Clara could hear him say.

She smirked and crossed her arms. "I'll be in the console room if you need anything," she said over her shoulder. However, on second that, Clara added, "Actually, I'll be popping in from time to time. Best not to get you moving around when you're sick."

"I can still _move_," was the Doctor's muffled, annoyed reply.

"Yeah, but _don't_." Clara said loftily and walked out of the bedroom.

xXx

The next few hours were actually rather uneventful for Clara Oswald. She checked up on the Doctor, of course, though each time she did, he was either sleeping or intent on shooing her away. ("Don't need help right now, Clara," he would always grumble.) He didn't seem to have a fever whenever Clara tested for one, either. (At least, in those brief, three-and-a-half forehead checks, anyways. The Doctor would usually shrink away from Clara's touch. She was beginning to get used to it at this point.)

So you could imagine her surprise when she walked in the Doctor's bedroom to find him shivering and shaking in his bed, only to find out that he didn't feel even _slightly _warn when Clara tested for a fever. Frowning, Clara sat on the bed and moved her hands down to the Doctor's cheek – to his neck – to find _some _source of fever or reason as to why the Doctor would be suffering. Sucking in a frustrated breath, Clara shook the Doctor. As much as she hated to wake him, she needed to know what was wrong. He might be able to provide her with some answers, after all.

When the Doctor didn't wake right away, Clara hissed, "_Doctor!_"

Slowly, the Doctor's eyes fluttered open. He groaned and closed his eyes almost immediately. Clara shook her head and squeezed the Doctor's hands. "Wake up," she said frantically. "_Doctor!_"

"_What?" _The Doctor asked weakly, opening his eyes again. Clara held up his hands so he could see the obvious tremble in them. "Why're you shaking? Are you cold? Because I _don't feel a fever!_"

The Doctor's head fell back against the pillow and breathing in sharply, he managed to say through chattering teeth, "That's because Time Lords have different body temperatures, Clara."

_Oh. _

"Well, then, why didn't you _tell me?_" Clara asked, trying to keep her voice low. "I thought something was really, dreadfully wrong! I thought something else might be – wait." Eyes narrowing, Clara hissed, "You had the fever before, didn't you? And I just couldn't feel it and you _pushed me away _– ugh! Doctor, you insufferable –"

Another violent tremor from the Doctor cut the rest of Clara's rant off. His eyes were closed again – his hands were clutching the blankets and he had now most definitely given up on listening to Clara. The brunette automatically rested her hands over the Doctor's forehead, even though she knew that this time, it'd be in vain. "Clara," the Doctor murmured shakily. "_Don't_."

"Not going to happen," Clara replied softly and stood up, pushing the blankets back. "If we're going to get you better, you'll have to ditch the blankets."

The Doctor shivered, simply burrowing deeper into the mattress. His entire body tightened visibly, looking as uncomfortable and unsettled as an alien could be. Pressing her lips together, Clara took a few steps back and watched, even though it pained her to do so. Every once in a while, a harsh cough would take over the Doctor, punctuated by such sharp, heavy breaths that made Clara's chest hurt just listening to it. Each time, the Doctor would fall back against the mattress and struggle for air for a few minutes before closing his eyes again. And Clara, most of the time, would have to struggle to get the blankets away from him whenever he reached for them. (_That _was something that pained Clara just as much.)

Finally, Clara decided that she had watched enough.

Looking up at the ceiling, Clara neatly took off her shoes and slid into the bed next to the Doctor. She placed a gentle hand on his quivering back, causing him to turn around. "What are you _doing?" _he asked.

"Just…" Clara's voice drifted and closing her eyes, replied, "I didn't want you to be alone here."

Clara waited for the reply – perhaps an annoyed comment about how the Doctor wasn't a child (even though that was debatable) and that he could take care of himself, or maybe something that would force Clara to leave the bed. However, neither thing came. Instead, to Clara's great surprise, she felt the mattress lower only slightly as the Doctor's head fell against Clara's shoulder.

Emitting a small squeak of surprise, the brunette's eyes snapped open and she peered down at the Doctor. His eyes were still closed, and he was still shaking against her, though this was…different somehow. She couldn't really explain it – he looked more…what, relaxed? Comforted?

Either way, Clara felt her heart soften. With a small smile, Clara hesitantly wrapped her arms around the Doctor's shoulders. When he didn't react or flinch away, Clara allowed herself to relax freely against him. She let out a small sigh and closing her eyes again, let her head fall back against the pillow.

Unknown to Clara Oswald, the Doctor's eyes had opened one last time to look down at the younger woman. He took one quick glance at where she was – where her arms were wrapped around – and to his own surprise, a small smile spread across his face. He stared back up at the ceiling and slowly lapsed back to sleep.

* * *

**A/N - I want the Doctor and Clara to cuddle at one point. I really, really, really want them to. Doesn't mater if it's romantic or platonic, I just want some cuddles because they deserve it. THEY DESERVE A HAPPY EPISODE. DO YOU HEAR ME?! **

**GAH. I don't even know what to do with my feels anymore. (And it should be illegal for fangirls to go to school after a heartbreaking episode - I was still in tears when I had to go to school today...and drowning in more tears when I found out that I'll have more assignments this week...)**

**Reviews are always great! Constructive criticism is allowed, but flames are not!**


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